To Choose or To Tether
by me malum
Summary: In a world where soul bonding is the norm, Arthur won't give his away to anyone. Short AU oneshots, FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

Hi. Completely unrelated to anything else, I give you soul-bonding tropes set in AU Hetalia (all are human). Imagine that (insert science/religion/unexplained plot device) has given humans the ability to go one step better than marriage- soul bonding. It has replaced marriage as the highest, purest expression of deep, abiding love- marriage is now considered more like the bond between adulteror and mistress. However, there is no one predestined 'soulmate'- you still have to find someone and fall in love with them.

Yeah, so I didn't go so in depth with this world as I wanted to. But I like the piece as it is now. Features **established FrUK**, mentions others, curses occasionally and maybe has traces of my deep, abiding sarcasm for the idea of a one true love for every person (ironically, I love stories where character A finds their soulmate in character B and they fight evil and triumph together over every hardship and live happily ever after. As a fiction trope, it's great. In real life... aeyeesh.)

**Disclaimer**- heh, I wish. Short oneshot is short, but it features poetry! (which I equally disclaim, and pretend I am not-so-secretly a fan of.) Assume, going into this, that Francis has just proposed the idea of soul-bonding to Arthur. The writing starts probably half-way into his reaction.

Enjoi.

* * *

"Loving someone- it shouldn't be something you _need_, something that makes you _whole again_." Scorn dripped from every word he said. "You aren't my other half; you don't complete me; I would sooner say you're a better man than my better part, and even that would have to be dragged out of me!"

Francis was watching him with very wide eyes. It was impossible to tell what he thought of Arthur's impassioned speech. The Englishman continued, regardless.

"You can keep your French fancies of soul mates and eternal bonding- I would rather a thousand years spent in Hell than a mere lifetime effectively tethered to someone in complete and idiotic adoration." His look dared the Frenchman to challenge him on this. "I love you, you bloody prat." He took a deep breath and elaborated on what might be the most important words of his life. "I love you enough that I would never want those ropes binding us; my feelings are such that although I'd still have the option to walk away at any time, I never would." His voice hardened. "And if you can't see that for the gesture it is, then _fuck you_. Like I said, I don't need you to complete me, you don't make me want to be a better person and if it isn't enough that I _choose_ to be with you rather than being trapped with you then I'll drink myself stupid over you, _then I will forget about you_." His breath was coming in short gasps as he forwent breathing to get the words out. "Because that is the way I choose to love- you make my life infinitely better for being in it, but never presume that you will ever _become_ that life."

Blue eyes, set in a carefully blank face, appraised every part of his expression, judging its sincerity. For lack of anything witty to say, Francis laughed a little to dispel the heavy atmosphere. It turned out to be the wrong action, for Arthur visibly gathered himself and made to storm from the room in a fit of temper before Francis caught his wrist to prevent such an event. "For someone who so disregards romantic notions, you have quite the way with poetic speeches." Arthur bristled and tried to tug his wrist away; Francis strengthened his grip. "So we have a difference of ideology; it should not be insurmountable." His throat was dry. Francis coughed to clear it. "Arthur- I was willing to trust you with every part of me- with my very _soul_. Compared to that, what is trusting that you love me as ardently as you proclaim?"

Arthur's jaw had gone slack; his face was the definition of gobsmacked. "You would..." he broke off, stuttered, and tried again. "You would forgo a soul-bonding for me?" Hope, bright and almost painful to see, bloomed in his eyes. "Despite the abnormality of such a choice in this current climate?"

"You sound so unsure," Francis teased him lightly. "Where is the passion I heard only minutes ago?" Something clicked in his head then- he realised exactly _why_ the speech was so impassioned. "I am not the first person you've said this speech to."

Arthur shook his head, but there was no trace of shame in his expression. He did not regret loving the way he did, fiercely, unfettered and utterly by _choice_.

"Might I know who else has heard it?" Francis asked like he had no real stake in the matter, but curiosity was burning at him. Had they been as receptive as he to the matter, only for Arthur to walk away later?

For seconds he thought the Englishman would not answer, then with a sigh and a head shake, Arthur muttered the list, short as it was. "Elizabeth. She scorned me but hasn't bonded herself, the hypocrite. Victoria- she found _true love_ and bonded with a German pillock, Albert." Francis didn't know either name; he presumed he'd never met the women. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, glanced to the side as though wishing to be anywhere else, and finally muttered the last name. "Alfred."

Francis blinked slowly. "Our Alfred?"

"Do you know any other Alfreds?" Arthur asked, biting at the words. "He- we fought bitterly over it. He refused to believe I truly loved him because I wouldn't give him everything. Wouldn't give him my soul." He met gazes again; steadfast in his belief despite how it cost him. "It is _my_ soul, and nobody else's to possess. I would give you my regard and my time- give you my heart and everything it might symbolically represent. But I don't want your soul, and I won't give you mine."

"Arthur." Francis's voice was low and measured. "Arthur, I love you, and as such I'd never ask for it."

It was the first time he'd told the Englishman as such, and he saw the impact it had on the shorter man. Every muscle relaxed, the tension drained from his shoulders and his eyes lost some of the shadows of the past.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but Francis suddenly knew what he could say to break it. "I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more." He had a ghost of a grin on his face. They often swapped quotes in a game of wits.

Arthur matched him as always, smiling himself. "And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare."


	2. Chapter 2

Huh. So apparently there is more. Go figure. Probably obvious, but this is set way before the previous one.

Same warnings as the first. Enjoi.

* * *

They meet at Alfred's bonding, when Arthur is still torn between thinking, _thank fuck it isn't me up there with him, giving him everything he needs (everything I am that I don't want to give) _and _why, fuck it why wasn't I enough, why couldn't I be enough, why couldn't I get over it and be _everything_ for him?_

Of course, they haven't been dating for three years, so Arthur doesn't think of Alfred like that anymore (hasn't since he spent fifteen days getting trashed before he told himself _enough_ and managed to stick to it- that was two and a half years ago now, give or take). But there's a small, masochistic part of him that wonders what could have been if Arthur had been willing to offer Alfred a bonding instead of a marriage; it's the same part that still loves the younger man, even as it isn't _in love_ with him.

So. They meet at Alfred's bonding to his Canadian lover, who is sweet and trusting and _giving_, and tells Arthur more than anything else that he and Alfred would not even have made it in a marriage, because they were nothing like that together.

While Alfred and Matthew are secluded for the obligatory post-bonding session (required isolation to allow their souls to mix and meld and become one rather than two- Arthur briefly met the three people who live on the outside of town: the couple didn't listen, started partying immediately, and ended up accidently creating a tri-bond to the best man as well. Elizaveta has never got over it and spends her time between loving Roderich and hating Gilbert, and none of them are happy, except maybe Gilbert, who loves and hates both of them equally and has never been able to separate the two.), Arthur immediately hits up the bar and proceeds to order the most alcoholic thing on the menu. Another man sidles up and takes the stool next to him, and asks with the faintest trace of a French accent for an X-Rated Tart. Perhaps feeling Arthur's incredulous stare, the man then shrugs without a trace of embarrassment and says matter of factly, "Asking for Blow Jobs is becoming incredibly cliché. Not to mention bordering on sexual harassment when speaking to bartenders."

Knocking back the single malt (just to clear his throat, _not_ because he thinks this a conversation he will struggle with stone-cold sober) Arthur somehow replies "And I suppose a Sex on the Beach just isn't adventurous enough for your tastes?"

The man laughs and flips his hair back with casual ease. "Rather too sweet. I like something a little... tarter."

Arthur blinks, but before he can censor himself, what comes out of his mouth is "A man who makes so vile a pun would not scruple to pick a pocket." The words seem to echo in the loud room, but before he can escape, an unexpected smile and a wink comes his way, along with a hand on his shoulder.

"Why should I pick pockets when any man in here should be grateful to buy me a drink?" Like that, the man picks up his (pink, of course it was _pink_) cocktail and makes his way back across the room.

* * *

Later, Arthur pesters Alfred about who the man was (_I need a bit more to go on than a French accent, or did you forget that half of Matthew's family is from Quebec?_). Matthew, thankfully, overhears and interrupts them, although it takes a few tries for him to be heard over their muttered curses.

"What did he look like?" the Canadian asks, sweet and smiley and genuinely pleased to help.

"Blond, flaming," are the two words that immediately come to Arthur's mind. Matthew bites his lip to hide a grin.

"Was he drinking a pink cocktail?" When Arthur nods warily, Matthew continues- "That was my cousin, Francis. He's not from Quebec though, he's actually French."

Questions answered, Arthur leaves them to it (he has no desire to be accidentally bonded, isolation taken or not, and has spent as little time with the pair of them as possible. Alfred looked a little sad, but more disturbing, he looked _understanding_). He misses Matthew's last comment, "Did he open a tab tonight? Has he checked what's actually going on it?"

Alfred takes only seconds to realise what Matthew means (two halves of the same soul, and it's breathtaking and awesome and everything he ever wanted with Matthew) and grins. "Don't worry about it," he reassures his bonded. "What's a bonding party without a scene or two?"

* * *

Later still, Arthur thinks enough is enough and makes his way (somewhat unsteadily) over to the bar to pay off his tab.

When the numbers come up, he freezes and double checks it's _his_ tab the bartender has given him. Then he asks to see the full list.

_X-Rated Tart, Passion Rouge, Naive Negligee, Between The Sheets_-

-and the one, the one that tops it all off-

_French Kiss_-

-because it actually has a lipstick kiss and a _merci, mon cher_ scrawled in beautiful cursive.

"That fucker," Arthur breathes, and knowing it will be too late, scans the room for any sign of the French tosser. As suspected, the man is either hiding or gone. Arthur can only laugh, because it's exactly the sort of thing he did to unsuspecting bastards in his university years, but never has someone managed to pull it off on him.

Anything he does now will be too alcohol fuelled and sleep-deprived to make the sort of impact he wants, so he simply pays the tab and makes a note of how much the French wanker owes him. Because Arthur will make sure he sees the bastard again, and collect in full. Plus interest.

More interest than he is comfortable with, if he is perfectly honest with himself.

He isn't.


End file.
